


the silence of the sea

by fatal_drum



Series: the silence of the sea [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Kink Meme, M/M, Martin is having a very bad time, Possessive Behavior, Public Humiliation, Sexual Harassment, Suicidal Thoughts, The Lonely - Freeform, Trans Martin Blackwood, Verbal Humiliation, nonconsensual everything actually, nonconsensual voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 01:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21438067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Running through the cramped corridors of theTundra,Martin realizes he’s made a terrible mistake.It’s a pity he didn’t realize sooner.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Series: the silence of the sea [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690969
Comments: 21
Kudos: 120
Collections: Rusty Kink





	the silence of the sea

**Author's Note:**

> Many months ago, an anon at Rusty Kink asked for Petermartin noncon on a boat. This one's for you, anon, and for all the lovely people who keep me going with their kind comments! I adore you all! <3 Also, many thanks to my friend and beta, Cuttooth! <3<3
> 
> Title from _The Rime of the Mariner_.
> 
> This fic is A Lot. Please read the trigger warnings carefully.

Running through the cramped corridors of the _Tundra_, Martin realizes he’s made a terrible mistake.

It’s a pity he didn’t realize sooner.

* * *

The _Tundra _is nothing like Martin imagined. He supposes he’d been picturing something akin to a cruise ship, but the reality is far less romantic: a massive ship with a broad deck piled high with shipping containers in a variety of garish, clashing colors. None of those containers have been moved in decades. The real cargo is below decks, under lock and key: small items precious to the Entities that can’t be trusted to travel by plane or post. The Lukases have spent over a century perfecting their methods. 

Peter’s crew watch him as he boards the ship, fixing him with hard stares. Aside from Tadeas, none of them have served for longer than a year or so. Few manage to survive the atmosphere of distrust, and eventually they either quit or leave by...other means. A few seem vaguely curious, or resentful. 

As he looks, one gives him a sneer and grabs his crotch, not bothering to hide the gesture. Startled, Martin looks to Peter, but his boss is already halfway to his cabin, and by the time he looks back, the man has returned to sanding a metal rail. He decides not to say anything about it. No use stirring up trouble on his first day.

Tadeas takes him on a tour of the vessel. He’s quiet without being sullen; polite, but not deferential. The ship feels like its own little world, already miles from shore, with a grinding mechanical heart. Around him, sailors work quietly and efficiently, going from one task to another and making the tight corridors quite crowded. It should be loud and boisterous, with sailors greeting each other, telling jokes, laughing; instead, the silence weighs over them all, leaving only the sounds of the engine and the roaring sea. 

His quarters are in a little room he suspects was previously storage; someone’s brought in a cot and a small side table, but other than that, it’s quite sparse. There’s no window, only a porthole in the door. It’s remarkably cramped, but he’s had worse. Peter’s cabin is next to his, larger and better-appointed, but not ostentatiously so.

“How are you finding my ship?” Peter asks that evening. They’re eating in Peter’s quarters, on opposite sides of his desk: crisp-seared halibut, drizzled with butter and herbs Martin doesn’t recognize, over a bed of roasted vegetables. 

Martin thinks of the silent crew, and his small cabin; the disgusted look from the man who grabbed himself. Thinks of how far they are from London, from _ Jon, _and says, “I’ve never been to sea before.”

Peter fixes him with a wide grin. “We’ll make a sailor of you yet.”

Martin smiles weakly, and takes another bite of fish. 

After the meal, Peter stops Martin before he can leave, and claps him on the shoulder. He leans down so close Martin can smell his aftershave, can feel the tickle of stubble against his ear, and whispers, “Sweet dreams.”

Martin is unable to suppress a shiver. “R-right,” he says, and stumbles out the door, ducking into his own cabin. 

It’s only then that he realizes the door has no lock.

* * *

The next few days pass slowly. The _ Tundra _always seems to be shrouded in fog, and there’s no sight of land anywhere. Martin becomes acutely aware that if he needed to escape, there’s nowhere to go. He has no idea which way is landward, and he doesn’t trust the rickety little lifeboats. Not that they could lead him out of the Lonely, if Peter sends him there. He thinks of being trapped on a tiny wooden boat miles from land, wandering until he slowly starves to death. The thought leaves him cold. 

Simon was right. There’s more than a little of the Vast out here, the creeping certainty that there are nameless, shapeless things beneath him that could rise at any moment to claim him. It’s miles to the ocean floor in some places, to creatures that haven’t seen light or air for millennia, and he dreams about being crushed beneath the weight and the pressure and the darkness. 

The crew have graduated from indifference to hostility. Some of them go out of their way to collide with him in corridors, shoving him hard against the metal walls. He’s starting to collect bruises. 

“Trouble sleeping?” Peter asks one afternoon, when he catches Martin yawning in the middle of scrawling notes. 

Martin tries to laugh, and the sound comes out rusted and jarring. “Guess I’m just a city boy at heart,” he says.

Peter’s hand is surprisingly warm as it lands above his knee and squeezes. “You’ll get used to it. The sea’s already marked you.”

Martin’s pulse flutters, and Peter’s hand stays on his leg, an unwelcome weight. His breath grows shallow and uneasy. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“You will,” Peter says, before finally, mercifully withdrawing his hand. “See you in the morning?”

“Bright and early,” Martin promises, fleeing as fast as decorum permits.

* * *

Martin could swear the _ Tundra _is growing smaller. It seems he can scarcely move without bumping into Peter, or Tadeas, or one of the more hostile sailors. He tries to tell himself it’s his imagination when he feels a hand on his arse in a crowded hallway, that it’s just the close quarters and his natural shyness, but then one of them slides between his thighs, making him yelp, and he draws more than a few unimpressed stares. 

After that, he tries to spend as much time as possible above deck, staring out at the sea, or in his quarters reading. At night he hears strange noises outside his door that doesn’t lock. He sleeps less and less. Gradually he realizes that anyone who might have cared for him is long dead. All he has now is Peter, who only wants him for his god.

“You seem troubled,” Peter says.

Martin drops his fork, startled; it clangs loudly against the plate.

“I...I don’t think your crew like me very much,” he confesses. 

“What makes you think that?”

Like an idiot, Martin stammers out his impressions, the disgusted looks, the hard shoves, the ghost-feeling of hands in intimate places. It all sounds so stupid, like schoolyard bullying, but Peter’s expression is contemplative. 

“I—it’s probably nothing,” Martin says, staring down at Peter’s desk.

“No, no. I should have seen this coming.”

Martin looks up to see Peter’s gaze fixed on him. His mouth is a stern, flat line, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners. Martin finds himself unable to look away. Peter’s eyes are the blue-grey of a storm, and Martin feels like he could drown.

Peter leans close, eyes still locked on Martin’s. “They know that deep down, you’re a _ slut,” _he says, almost gently. “They can’t help but respond to it.”

Suddenly Martin can barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. His face and hands feel numb with cold, and his mouth is dry. 

“I—I’m not—”

Peter’s hand settles on the back of his neck, squeezing firmly. From anyone else, the touch would be reassuring, but Martin just feels sick. 

“It’s not your fault,” Peter assures him. “You could no more change your nature than I could change mine.”

“I’m not a slut!” Martin snaps, pulling out of Peter’s grasp. He’s shaking as much with anger as anything else. “Just—just _ don’t.” _

Peter watches him with amusement. 

“They won’t fuck you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says matter-of-factly. “Not without my permission.”

That night, Martin doesn’t sleep at all. He tries shoving the bedside table against the door, but it’s not heavy enough to stop an intruder; at best, he’s have a few moments’ warning. He’s sure they should already have made landfall, but he’s afraid to ask how long it will be, how long they have still to go. 

He’s afraid of a lot of things. 

* * *

The next day passes with a strange calm. He’s half-afraid Peter will do..._ something, _but he’s almost professional, for a change. 

They sight a whale on the starboard side of the vessel. Peter points it out to him, wraps a thick arm around his shoulders as the creature breaks the surface, its dark, rubbery skin gleaming in the sun before it sinks beneath the waves. Martin’s heart races as Peter continues to stand in his space, his arm a warm and heavy weight, until Tadeas calls him to look at something in the control room, and he leaves Martin alone, his skin growing cold in the sea spray. 

Perhaps being alone isn’t the worst thing.

* * *

In retrospect, what happens is inevitable. Peter makes his move when they’re below decks, ostensibly so Peter could do something technical with the navigation systems. He actually does appear to make some sort of repair while Martin holds a torch. The moment he finishes, Peter presses Martin against the wall. His thigh slips between Martin’s legs, rubbing against his cock, and Martin can’t help the startled sound he makes. 

“I’ve been patient,” Peter tells him, lips brushing against his ear. “Given you time to understand your position. Elias gave you to me _ ages _ago, you realize. I could have had you any time.”

“I’m not a _ thing _you can trade for,” Martin snaps, shoving hard against Peter’s chest. 

“You belong to the Institute,” Peter says, ignoring Martin’s attempts to escape. “And right now, the Institute...is me.”

Before Martin can react, Peter leans down, claiming his mouth in a hard kiss. His thigh grinds against Martin’s cock, making him gasp, and Peter forces his way into his mouth. To Martin’s horror, heat flares between his legs. 

“I can make you feel good,” Peter promises, his voice rough with desire. Martin can feel his erection pressing into his stomach. 

_ “Fuck off,” _ Martin snarls. He stomps on Peter’s instep as hard as he can, taking satisfaction in Peter’s grunt of pain. Martin shoves him again, and gains just enough room to escape through the open doorway. 

Peter’s laughter follows him down the hallway, and Martin can’t _ think _ clearly, can’t recall where they are in relation to the deck, or to anything else, but he has to _ run. _

Except for the small voice inside him that says, _ It’s not too late. If you give up now, maybe he won’t hurt you. _

He forces the thought away, because he has to _ focus, _ to _ decide, _and he can barely think over the hammering of his heart. He takes turns more or less at random, hoping to lose Peter in the maze-like corridors. He grabs for a door handle, but it’s locked, as is the next one; he gives up opening doors and just runs until there’s nowhere to go but up.

He trips on the stairs, landing painfully on his knees, but he keeps running. He could try barricading himself in his room, but that’s a lost cause, and worse, he’d be trapped. The shipping containers? He could force one open, maybe, and hide until Peter loses interest—

His path is blocked by two stone-faced men, standing side by side. One look tells him all he needs to know: there will be no quarter from them, or anyone else. He whirls around, prepared to run the other way, but strong hands close on his biceps, and he screams.

“Let me go!” he shouts, struggling against the bruising grip, but they hardly look at him, instead staring at the door he came from. Waiting for Peter, he realizes. Because Martin means nothing to them, but Peter is the only thing between them and Forsaken. He tries lashing out, but all he gets for his troubles is a fist in the gut. He groans, wishing he could double over, but they hold him too tightly.

Peter takes his time approaching Martin, cupping his chin with sickening gentleness. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says. “But you had to play coy, didn’t you?”

“Peter, please—”

“Shush, now. We’re done talking.”

Peter comes in close, slips his hand down the front of Martin’s trousers, sliding down to stroke the tender skin of his folds. His callused palm grinds against Martin’s cock, and Martin bites his lip hard, barely suppressing a whimper. Peter withdraws his hand with a smirk, popping his first two fingers into his mouth and sucking them clean. He sighs contentedly, and Martin’s face burns with shame.

“You taste wonderful,” Peter praises. “But only good boys get their cunt eaten, and you haven’t been very good, have you?”

“F-fuck you, Peter!” 

Martin tries his best to sound fiercely defiant, but he’s very conscious of his position, pinned between Peter and two sailors, and the grip on his arms _ hurts. _

“No need to be rude,” Peter says, patting Martin’s cheek with the same hand he used before. To Martin’s captors, he says, “Over the rail, I think.”

Without ceremony, the men drag him to the rear of the ship, shoving him so hard against the rail he grunts out loud. Someone shoves his hands behind him, binds them with rough nylon cord so he can’t balance. Below him, the sea roars, a roiling mass of blue waves. He considers wriggling off the edge and letting it claim him, and he’s not sure what scares him most: the sea, the Lonely, or Peter Lukas. 

Something cold and hard presses into his back, and he hears cloth ripping, first his jumper, then his binder, falling in ragged shreds around him. Peter runs possessive hands over his body, squeezing and kneading the places where he’s soft—at least he _ hopes _it’s Peter, because the alternative is even worse.

“I think this was a cry for attention,” Peter says, sliding the knife under Martin’s waistband. Martin holds as still as he can, praying that his hand doesn’t slip. He shivers as Peter cuts through the fabric, exposing him to the cool wind and dozens of eyes. Peter shoves his legs apart, prodding at him with thick fingers.

“Should I leave you here, and let you have your_ fill?” _ Peter shoves a finger into him, making his meaning clear.

“Please don’t,” Martin begs. “Please, Peter, I don’t—” 

He breaks off with a low cry, because Peter’s begun stroking him from the inside, hitting a spot that makes him clench involuntarily. A second finger slides in to join the first, and it should be too much, but he’s already mortifyingly wet.

“Good lad,” Peter murmurs, fucking him gently with his fingers, a steady rhythm that makes Martin dig his nails into his palms. “You don’t want me to leave you alone with these gentlemen, do you?”

Martin cranes his neck to look to the side. Several of the crew are staring at him, at the place where Peter’s hand joins his body, with undisguised hunger. He looks away, ashamed. There’s only one thing he can say.

“No,” he whispers.

“You’d rather have me?”

“Please, Peter, don’t leave! Don’t let them…” He shudders, unable to say it. “Just please, don’t.”

Peter leans down to kiss his shoulder, almost tenderly. 

“I’ve got you, lad.” 

His hands slide to cup Martin’s arse, squeezing firmly before giving him a hard slap. Laughter rings out over the deck as Martin squirms, and Peter slaps him again, and again, until his cheeks are hot and sore, and the heat on his skin throbs in time with the unwanted heat between his thighs. 

The sound of a zipper echoes in his ears, far too loud, and Martin squeezes his eyes shut. The blunt head of Peter’s cock slides against his wet folds, bumping against Martin’s own cock and making him gasp. It’s alarmingly thick, sending a thrill of panic through him. 

“You’re so good and wet for me,” Peter praises. “I knew you’d like it, you filthy little thing.”

Martin’s never been _ little, _ but he’s not in a position to argue, and Peter’s cock is prodding against his hole, stretching him open, and he whimpers at the invasion. It’s bigger than anything he’s had before, and it _ hurts, _enough that he’s worried about tearing. 

Peter pauses, stroking his flanks, and Martin realizes he’s sobbing. Peter snakes an arm around his body, rubbing his cock with callused fingers, and Martin’s hips jerk forward of their own volition. Peter pins him in place long enough to slide the rest of the way in, and Martin can scarcely breathe, forced open and impaled on Peter’s cock. Tears run down his face, falling off his chin and down into the ocean below. 

Peter fucks him slow and deep, keeping one hand twisted in Martin’s hair and rubbing the other against his cock. The whole time, he pants against Martin’s ear, whispering filthy praise about how tight he is, how sweet he feels, how _ good _he’s being for Peter, and Martin wants to sink to the bottom of the sea, never to be seen or heard or touched again. He sobs so hard he nearly chokes, and hates himself. 

Tension coils low in his belly, and he can feel himself tightening around Peter, but he fights the sensation as best he can, focusing on anything he can: the hard railing digging into his hips; the pins-and-needles in his numbing hands.

“If you don’t come,” Peter promises, “I’ll let them fuck you. Everyone who wants to use your sweet little cunt, or your arse. Both at once, even—I’d hate to make them wait.”

Martin pictures it, starts to struggle against Peter. “No, no, no—”

With a low growl, Peter takes hold of his hips and drives into him with abandon, fucking him mercilessly, until Martin’s howling, overwhelmed with sensation. His orgasm hits him so hard he nearly blacks out, clamping down tightly around Peter’s cock and spurting fluid everywhere. Peter moans and pulls out, jerking himself until he coats Martin’s arse and thighs with spatters of come. He slaps a hand against Martin’s cunt, making him flinch, and then uses his fingers to push some inside him. He sighs with satisfaction. 

Martin lets out a low, wounded sound, curling in on himself as best he can. He’s suddenly shivering, chilled to the bone. Peter pulls him upright, letting him rest against his chest. He can’t feel his hands at all. Peter strokes his hair with damp fingers, leaving smears of fluid on his face that he barely notices. 

“You did so well for me,” Peter praises. “My lovely boy.”

Peter leans down to kiss him again, meeting no resistance as he explores his mouth. Martin’s limbs feel heavy and lifeless, like a doll’s. Moving seems like an impossible feat. 

Gently, Peter guides him to his knees, turning him to face the crew. With a great effort, Martin looks up at him, confused. 

“You gave them quite a show, love. You can’t leave them with _ nothing. _That would be rude.”

To Tadeas, he says, “His arse and cunt are mine, but his mouth’s fair game. Leave him in my quarters when you’re done.”

The crowd begins to close in on him, and rough hands seize his hair. Peter disappears from view, leaving him alone among strangers, and panic rises in his throat. 

“Don’t go!” he cries. “P-please, Peter.” 

“You want me to stay? To watch?” 

Martin can hear Peter’s voice even if he can’t see him, and he clings to it like a lifeline. 

“Yes...” he confesses.

Someone steps back, and Martin can see Peter again, leaning against a shipping crate with an amused expression.

“Beholding,” he chuckles. “Well, then, lads. Carry on.”

Peter’s gaze stays fixed on him as someone taps a half-hard cock against his lips, and he opens on instinct. His mouth is flooded with the bitter taste of unwashed skin. Someone else drags their dick through his hair, leaving an unsettling sticky feeling. 

If he stares into Peter’s eyes long enough, he can almost forget what’s happening. The color makes him think of storm-battered seas, and of drowning. He wishes, briefly, that he had jumped. 


End file.
